


dark water

by doublejoint



Series: peachtober 2020 [31]
Category: One Piece
Genre: M/M, Post-Marineford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:29:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27317044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublejoint/pseuds/doublejoint
Summary: “You’re wearing my shirt,” Shanks says, something like surprise or maybe--delight?--in his voice.
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Buggy
Series: peachtober 2020 [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953295
Comments: 6
Kudos: 106





	dark water

**Author's Note:**

> #peachtober day 31: Moonlight
> 
> thanks to everyone who's read any of these peachtober fics this month! i appreciate it <3

Shanks falls asleep a few minutes after finishing--he always did sleep a lot, and keep his schedule adhered close to daylight, Buggy supposes. Roger used to tease him about it, and as if to even things out, Rayleigh would always scold Buggy for sneaking around at night (though it wasn’t like Shanks never did that too). Somehow, now, though Buggy’s avoided thinking about that time as much as possible in the ensuing years, it hurts more and less to think about now. He and Shanks were just kids all those years ago. And yet, it feels like they’re picking up where they’d left off, or they’d never left off at all. Maybe, once you’ve spent enough time with someone, you can’t ever not be that way with someone, or maybe Shanks just evokes the same reactions as he did back then--he’s annoying, nearly always got that stupid smile on his face, convinced he’s right, convinced he knows exactly how to make Buggy do things he can’t bother to do himself.

(Maybe he can; maybe he always could--as fucking if. It’s all just a coincidence, as it always was.)

Still, if you know someone well enough--Buggy feels a little bit stupid for not connecting the dots with Ace and Roger, though in hindsight it’s clear, Ace’s unwillingness to retreat and endless love of parties that Buggy had thought to say (but never did) that he’d have fit right in with the old crew. Of course he would have, Whitebeard’s man though he was.

All of this is troubling, and Buggy hates when things are troubling, murky and complicated. He’d rather have his work set out for him, treasure that’s not so much hidden as clearly marked on a map, but he’s got to get the map and figure it out, find some way past whatever obstacles are guarding the treasure, be it buried in sand or ice, hidden in a cave full of traps, or something else entirely. 

The ship is still noisy; his crew and all those new guys who joined up with him, and half of Shanks’s crew, are all still aboard; not all of them have slipped off somewhere or fallen asleep yet. They haven’t run out of booze yet, Buggy supposes, and he’s thinking of maybe heading back to grab some himself, because he needs another fucking drink with all of this.

Maybe not in Shanks’s shirt, picked up from the floor; it’s better than prison duds but it’s still not exactly Buggy’s style, and rather than undo the knot in the left arm he just lets the lower part float below the sleeve. Easier that way.

His lipstick is still smudged on the collar of the shirt anyway, and Shanks will probably wear it out when he leaves tomorrow anyway. Buggy leans over the railing; the water’s dark below. There’s no threat of marines, or of anything else; there’s nothing immediate. He shouldn’t just keep thinking about the past; there’s no reason to. There are tasks at hand, the duties Shanks has taken on himself--not that any of that’s Buggy’s business.

He can’t not notice Shanks’s footsteps; in the years since they’d seen each other last, they’ve become less heavy. Probably thinks he can get by without stealth, huh?

“You’re wearing my shirt,” Shanks says, something like surprise or maybe--delight?--in his voice.

“What of it,” Buggy says, twisting his head around on his neck to get a proper look at Shanks. 

He looks pretty fucking tired, actually; Buggy’s about to tell him to just go back to bed, but Shanks is walking with intent. Probably going to get back to his business with Whitebeard’s crew. Buggy had never known Shanks was so tight with them, but maybe this is just that Emperor stuff, that’s way beyond him--or maybe it’s just Shanks, extending a hand even when he doesn’t have to, like always. But everyone deals with these things in their own way, even when they’re not directly involved.

Shanks hugs him, awkward because Buggy’s body is still mostly backwards, weird because--well, Shanks. 

“I like the long hair,” Shanks says. “By the way.”

Buggy makes a noise in the back of his throat, swiveling his head back around when Shanks leans in, so he ends up kissing the back of Buggy’s head. Buggy’s face is heating up again; all the alcohol’s left his system so he doesn’t even have a good excuse.

“It’s been too long,” says Shanks.

“Yeah,” says Buggy, because it really, really has. 

There’s no way Shanks will join him, and there’s no way he’ll join Shanks; that much is still true. That island is still out there, though, and Shanks’s promise, rash and of the moment perhaps, rests in the air between them. 

“That guy said he met Rayleigh,” Buggy says.

“Huh,” says Shanks, as if he’d expected this, or somehow known it already. 

Fucking figures. At least the old man’s still out there, doing something--sailing alone? Retired? If he were to meet Buggy, now what would either of them say? It’s stupid to dwell on that, mabe. It probably won’t happen.

“Go back to bed,” Buggy says.

“I’d like to,” Shanks says, squeezing Buggy around the middle, and Buggy resists the urge to pop apart.

Above them, the moon emerges from behind a large cloud, a slow sliver. Buggy turns his head back around. Shanks is smiling at him, his eyes soft, like he used to do when he thought Buggy wasn’t looking, and then when he didn’t care if Buggy was looking or not. It’s strange to see him without the hat, but--it suits him. Buggy won’t say that out loud, but Shanks seems to have read his thoughts.

“Come on, Buggy, you can say I look good.”

“Idiot,” says Buggy. “I don’t want your head swelling up.”

“Ah, we can’t have that,” says Shanks.

Shanks inches forward, and as much as Buggy wants to turn away again, he wants to kiss Shanks, too. And he lets Shanks bend him backward over the railing (not like he’ll let himself fall).

“You want your shirt back?” Buggy says, when Shanks finally pulls away.

“Yeah,” Shanks says, though he does take another look at Buggy, and if Buggy had known this was such a fucking turn-on for him, he might have done it twenty years ago (or maybe it wasn’t back then). 

It’s cold on deck without a shirt on; Buggy crosses his arms over his chest. He’ll have to head back in, and Shanks will head back out, and--when’s the next time? Buggy’s not going to wait twenty more years. But he doesn’t ask. At least this time, Shanks gives him a kiss goodbye.


End file.
